


I Shall Certainly Come

by linwesingollo



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 18:07:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/852472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linwesingollo/pseuds/linwesingollo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Before long the invitations began pouring out, and the Hobbiton post-office was blocked, and the Bywater post-office was snowed under, and voluntary assistant postmen were called for. There was a constant stream of them going up the Hill, carrying hundreds of polite variations of Thank you, I shall certainly come."  [A Long-expected Party] </p>
<p>Bilbo’s birthday party means extra work for the Hobbiton Post, but Bilbo has a special invitation in store for the overworked Postmaster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Shall Certainly Come

Nettie threaded a letter into one of the worn cubby-holes marked "Needlehole". Above it hung a larger sign lettered “North Farthing”. There were also sets of cubbies for the other three farthings and a separate set just for Hobbiton and the surrounding Green Hill country. These she routinely tended to first, starting in the center and gradually working her way around the entire Shire. She had nearly come full circle, and most of the handful of locals that routinely strolled in to pick up their mail rather than wait for delivery had come and gone. They came to read the penciled notices pinned up on the wall, and then lingered to talk, pressing her for news that the notices hadn‘t covered. Long ago she had learned to sort mail and talk with an attentive ear to whoever was leaning on the counter.

Her head bobbed and nodded as she sorted because her sole remaining customer, Esmerelda Headstrong, had made herself comfortable at the counter, bending her ears with a steady stream of gossip from Deephallow where she had just returned from visiting her son and his family. Esme was now going on at length about old farmer Holeman's problems with his new cows. Normally, Nettie enjoyed hearing the local news, even news about the scandalous condition of Holman’s cows' teats and worries about a possible outbreak of fog fever. Her status as Postmaster brought her considerable prestige as a reliable source of Shire news and, in turn, she felt it her duty to absorb and dispense information as much as she collected and distributed the Shire mail. It was her coin-in-trade and expected of her. Every scrap was of interest to someone.

Nettie finished the local batch and moved on to the outlying areas of the Shire, automatically sliding letter after letter into their slots, her eyes skimming the addresses, her mind preoccupied. Overhill, Needlehole, Budgeford, Tookbank, Pincup, Woodhall, Woody End, Yale, and all the other small villages that made up the Shire --- her fingers knew all their places by heart like a poem. The heavy envelopes hit the back of their homes with soft percussive thuds. The slots were filling up fast with invitations.

"Nettie! Are you listening to me?" complained Esme. "You haven't said a word for the last ten minutes."

"Of course, I'm listening," she replied more sharply than she meant to. “Hob should’ve known better than to buy cattle from old Oddfoot. He was always one to overgraze his pasture. Everyone knows it.” She wasn’t completely sure if Esme had still been talking about Holman’s cattle, but it seemed a safe enough remark to make.

Esme was a good friend and she normally looked forward to chatting with her, but her mind was on other matters. She must have forgotten to nod at exactly the right place for Esme to notice her inattention. Bovine ailments could only hold her interest for so long...

"Bother that dratted wizard!" she muttered darkly under her breath as she smartly slid another letter into its slot, "And bother this mail!" 

Her eyes slid to the canvas sacks of letters that had arrived early this morning, bulging out of the outgoing West Farthing bin. The sacks were from Bag End and the familiar spidery handwriting written in gold ink twinkled and winked at her as she sorted them into their homes. 

The golden letters kept reminding her of the exciting adventures she had had as a young lass with a head stuffed full of tall elves, golden treasures, and white-masted ships. A young, brash, tom-fool of a lass, she amended to herself. Ever since early morning she had been struggling with long-suppressed feelings that now yapped and nipped at her like high-strung sheep dogs.

Nettie pulled another handful from a sack and studied one of them again, turning it over to slowly brush the embossed B on the red wax seal with her thumb. B for Baggins. B for Bilbo. Her hands began to tremble and she abruptly thrust the letter home into its slot.

"Drat. Fool," she chided herself under her breath. 

Esme cut into her thoughts. "Who are you dratting now, Nettie? Did Widow Prim forget to put postage on her mail again?"

Nettie turned to her friend with a sigh. Unlike most people, Esme was never intimidated by her cranky spells and usually found a way to jolly her out of them. 

She snorted. "Widow Prim doesn‘t forget. She leaves it off deliberately hoping I won‘t notice, or hoping I’ll send it on postage due, she’s that tight with her pennies, but that wasn‘t what I was thinking about. I’m going to need to call in a few more assistants tomorrow. We’ve a precious lot of mail coming in from Bag End all of a sudden and I know that before I can draw a decent breath, the replies will come pouring in. Seems Mr. Baggins’ been busy inviting the entire Shire and then some to his birthday party. I’ve even got a sack-full addressed outside the Shire.”

She sighed and stopped to rub her shoulders. “I've done all the sorting I can do for one day. It’s getting late and my joints are aching. Might as well close up now, Esme. Your letter to your sister will go out first thing tomorrow."

"Bilbo Baggins’ birthday party! It’s going to be wonderful! Did I get an invitation, Nettie? Oh, please do tell me!“

Esme‘s elbows were propped on the counter with hands clasped under her dimpled chin. The mention of Bilbo's party made her broad face light up like a small child’s. The Birthday Party. It would be the talk of the Shire for years to come. Rumors had been flying as thick as the miller's geese, and Nettie was constantly pressed for details. This time, however, she only dispensed what everyone already knew. What they didn’t know, she kept firmly to herself. She was in no mood to find herself the laughingstock of Hobbiton.

“You know perfectly well the mail has to follow due process, Esme. I can't paw through all those invitations alone just to look for yours. Anyway, I doubt that anyone has been left off the guest list, if those bulging sacks are anything to go by. I expect you'll get one by and by.“

“All right, have it your way, but you're to have tea with me at four o'clock sharp day after next. Don't forget."

"Can't. I’ll be putting in double the time, even with the extra help. I’ll have to add an extra Bree dispatch, not to mention doubling Shire deliveries, so I‘ve no time for tea and chatting. Drat! I just remembered a couple of the ponies need shoeing…”

When Nettie finally managed to close the door behind her friend, she set herself to tidying her desk, putting away rolls of stamps, and locking all the drawers. She reached for her old walking-companion, Scatha, propped within easy reach in a corner behind the counter, grasping it in her hand, liking how the smooth dark wood fitted perfectly in her hand. The dragon's head boasted fanged jaws and a forked tongue lolling out at the tip and the eyes were set with real rubies. She gazed into the slanted orbs of fire, remembering. 

Scatha was a memento of youthful adventures - those infamous journeys into the Wild Blue Yonder, courtesy of Gandalf the Grey, thank you very much - and taken from a treasure hoard hidden deep in the Blue Mountains, east of the Shire borders. Gandalf had chosen it for her, quick to notice how her eyes had lit up in wonder at the sight of it. Later, it accompanied her on frequent tramps and was often used to scare off the young rascals that dared to scrump in her orchards. However, these days it served in a much less exciting fashion as a sturdy prop for her advancing age. She idly wondered if it missed the old days.

"Take it," the old wizard had said with a smile and a wink, "And let it remind you of the wild paths of your youth when you've gone back to settle down in your nice, safe, comfortable hobbit hole and your feet are no longer willing to follow untrodden ways."

"Drat you, Gandy," Nettie muttered. She did an awful lot of dratting and talking to herself lately. Gandalf took the blame for anything that annoyed her. Well, why not? He was usually the source and cause behind anything unsettling. "Drat and bebother you for opening my foolish eyes to lands and wonders beyond the Shire and disturbing my peace o' mind in my old age. You always were a troublemaker. May your old beard fall out wherever you are!" She followed it with a thump of her stick for emphasis and felt better.

She had loved the old fellow, still did, though she cursed him soundly whenever she felt restless. Gandalf had always treated her like a grown maid come of age instead of the troublesome 'tween that she had been at the time of their first meeting. He had been the only one to do so, feeding her love of stories with tales of wonder and encouraging her thirst for adventure. Wonder what the old fellow‘s been up to lately...she mused to herself for the thousandth time. Wouldn’t be surprised if he showed up for Bilbo’s party. Not surprised at all. The Shire was like a hive of drowsy, honey-fat bees and he loved nothing better than poking it with his wizard's staff. The trouble-maker. Sure as Shire-talk he was behind all of Bilbo’s plans and deep in. It wouldn’t be a proper party without Gandalf’s fireworks and she heard there was going to be plenty of those.

The doorbell tinkled and Nettie roused herself from the past. Drat these come-latelies and lag-behinds! “I’m closing,” she said tersely without looking up. A straggler heading home from the fields or the Dragon and thinking to wander in for his mail, no doubt. Well, he could think again and wait until tomorrow…

She waited for the intruder to leave without looking up. Once you made eye contact, it was all off. Then they’d plead and beg for their mail 'just this once’ and she’d give in. She always did. The quiet tick of the old reliable Post clock and a cow lowing far off in the distance filled the quiet. Then a gentle cough interrupted.

“Good evening, Sweet Nettle. I’m so sorry to bother you at this late hour.”

Only one person in the entire Shire dared call her by her full name. One other besides Gandalf, that is. She gripped Scatha’s head tightly to steady herself. She had been expecting this visit, but not so soon. She wasn’t ready for it and her heart began to pound. What in the Lady’s Name had possessed her mother to name her Sweet Nettle anyway? The Sweet had long been dropped by those who got to know her prickly temperament, and Nettle had soon fallen to Nettie, though even she agreed that Nettle was more apt. 

With her free hand, she groped for the leather wallet that hung from a girdle tied beneath her waistcoat, and pulled out a finely carved wooden pipe embellished with inlaid pearl and mithril. Another gift from Gandalf. A good smoke always steadied her nerves, but now her hands were full. She stood still, momentarily flustered. Fool. She didn’t trust herself to let go of Scatha. 

Her visitor stepped closer and reached into his waistcoat pocket. 

“Allow me.“ 

He reached into a leather pouch beneath his waistcoat and expertly packed a finger of Longbottom in the bowl, then cupping the bowl in one hand, he lit it with the other. Their heads bent together and when she glanced up, she was startled to see his eyes speculatively meeting her own. Nettie stepped back, took a long pull and blew an impressive smoke-ring. Another trick she had learned from the old wizard.

“Well done!” he congratulated softly with a smile.

Nettie concentrated on the shape and breadth of her rings, but her eyes were on her visitor. He’d gotten older, his hair nearly white now. And, well, so had she and so was hers. But his smile was as charming as ever and his eyes still twinkled with warmth and a touch of mischief. Dear, dear Bilbo...Drat him! There he stood dressed in his second-best brocaded waistcoat and gold pocket-watch, still cutting a fine figure after all these years. Her heart skipped a beat in spite of herself.

“I’m sorry for all the extra work I’ve brought on you, Nettle.”

She carefully blew another smoky ring and watched it lazily spin up near the post office ceiling. Much better. She sent two more adrift before answering. “You might have warned me. All your invitations on top of our regular deliveries. I don’t like the mail to be late. I‘ve enough trouble with some of the new riders, with one wall-propper lingering too long at the Floating Log with his pint, and the Bree post behind on their deliveries as usual. And all of them with their minds on your party instead on delivering mail like it ought to be. Can't get good help these days. I‘ve a mind to give ’em all a taste of Scatha here.” She gave the dragon’s head a shake and brought his tail down hard on the wooden floor with a sharp thump.

When had she gotten so sour and cranky? Too many long lonely years sorting the dratted mail is when…

“I’m sorry to hear that, Nettle. I trust the postage amount is correct on the invitations? I wasn't quite certain.“

Bilbo didn’t look sorry at all, or uncertain for that matter, just amused. He had never been intimidated by her cranky moods either, bless him. Or drat him, rather. She nodded, took a bracing pull of the pipe, and sent another ring swirling up towards the Post clock. Talking shop and blowing smoke rings calmed her some, getting her back on familiar ground. “A penny and a half and all correctly addressed so far as I can tell. I’ve only just begun sorting them out. That new letter scale of yours is near as accurate as the Posts’. You always did do things up proper, Bilbo. The rest of the Shire could learn a thing or two from you.”

“I’m glad to hear it. I know you’ve put in extra time. That’s one of the reasons I stopped by to see you. I’ve had a little talk with the Mayor and he’s agreed to give the Post a holiday in honor of my birthday party. A paid holiday. It was the least I could do as thanks to the postmen for delivering my party invitations.”

Bilbo was looking very pleased with himself. A little too pleased, and a little too sure of himself, as usual. One tiny ring puffed out of Nettie’s mouth in surprise.

“They haven’t even been delivered yet! ...but a paid holiday. Now that‘s real generous of the mayor considering I've been trying to get a paid holiday out of him for the past thirty years. What did you promise him? And what, more to the point, is wanted from me in return?” Cynicism had came with the Post and her old age.

Bilbo waved a hand at her. “Now don't get prickly with me, Nettle. Let’s just say I called in a favor from an old friend and leave it at that, shall we? I can be very persuasive when I want to be and the holiday is well deserved on your part.”

Nettie wondered what possible favors the mayor owed Bilbo. "True on both parts. I’m handling most of the invitations myself. I don’t trust the hired help to do it proper."

"I’m honored." Bilbo said sincerely with a small bow.

"Speaking of holidays, I came by to talk to you about more important matters, and I think you know what I‘m going to ask, Nettle." The sureness in Bilbo’s eyes gave way to pleading, and a shy vulnerable uncertainty crept in that she hadn’t seen before. It unnerved her.

“Have you given any more thought to my offer?”

She gripped Scatha tighter. “Is this what the Post holiday is all about? A bribe? I thought your offer of an adventure was one of your little jokes, Bilbo. A little joke you and Gandalf cooked up to amuse yourselves.”

“My dear lady!” retorted Bilbo, looking offended. “I confess I enjoy my little jokes from time to time but I assure you I was dead serious about you accompanying me on my little venture. Gandalf has nothing to do with it.”

“Even so. . . a little venture? You're talking about going on a long journey to see mountains and elves! Oh, Bilbo...You can‘t possibly be serious!” 

Bilbo reached over to lay a hand on the hand that rested on Scatha and clasped it tightly.

“Don’t 'Oh, Bilbo’ me. I am serious. Come away with me! Come and share one more adventure. Just the two of us, just like old times. Take a holiday - an extended holiday. It‘ll do you good.”

“But...they depend on me...My duties...the Post...”

Before she knew it, her pipe was taken from her and both her hands were clasped in his. Scatha clattered to the floor, one ruby eye winking knowingly up at her.

“Milo can take over the Post. He knows it as well as you do. Haven’t you tired yet of managing the mail? You complain about it enough. Don’t you want to see the mountains again, Nettle? Come with me! Come away and share this one last adventure with an old friend.”

Nettie drew in her breath, trying to steady herself. Drat him! She was too tired for this. And drat Gandalf while she was at it. She had no doubt whatsoever that the wily old wizard was somewhere behind it all, having a good laugh at her expense, despite what Bilbo may say to the contrary. Nettie soundly dratted the pair of them while groping for words. Yes, Bilbo could be very persuasive when he wanted to be. Especially when he was holding her hands so possessively and gazing into her eyes like he was.

There had been a time when she wouldn’t have hesitated. She suspected that Bilbo had always been a little sweet on her. Maybe more than a little. But somehow the opportunity for mutual happiness had passed them both by. Once upon a time, she had waited for him to tip his hand, but the waiting had been in vain. Why hadn’t he? Now she was too old for this sort of thing. Too set in her ways. As much as she tired of running the Post, she enjoyed the prestige and stability and independence it brought her. Running off to see mountains at her age! How would it look? ‘Mad Baggins’ indeed! Might as well add ‘Mad Nettie’ to the local gossip as well.

“Bilbo..." Nettie reluctantly disengaged her hands from his. She had to be firm.  
“This is foolishness. You know I can’t leave the Post. One doesn’t just run off on some wild adventure on a whim. Not at my age. Not at yours. We’re not young 'tweens anymore! Forget this mad plan of yours. Stay in the Shire where you belong.”

Bilbo’s shoulders sagged ever so slightly, and she hated herself for it. He bent to the floor to pick up Scatha and handed it to her. The implacable ruby eye winked again. 

She gathered the comforting props to herself; the pipe; Scatha's head, gripping it to cover the accusing eyes, but it didn’t calm the rapid fluttering of her heart. She found herself longing for the comforting warmth of his hands again...

Bilbo had his hand on the doorknob and turned to look at her. A long, appraising look.

“Very well, Nettle. I won’t press you any more. You’re a fine Postmaster, the best in the Shire and loyal to your duties. Perhaps it’s wrong of me to insist that you leave it all behind. Or too late. I’m a fool and have always been one and I blame myself for that. I only ask that you take one last look inside and try to find the adventurous lass that you are, that I once knew. Perhaps it is foolishness, but I no longer belong in the Shire. I have to see the mountains again one last time and I'd rather not do it alone.” 

He reached into his pocket and handed her an envelope. 

It as one of the party invitations, the same spidery gold lettering, the same red wax seal. She knew what it said inside because during her sorting, one or two envelopes had lost their seals, so she had peeked inside to take a look. All in line with her duties, of course, to make certain the contents were still intact. 

“Here, take it. This is for you,” he said softly.

She took it.

“It’s one of your party invitations,” she said.

“It's an invitation of another sort,” he answered, and then he slipped out the door into the gathering twilight and was gone.

 

~~~

 

 

Faint music from the Party Field drifted through the Post window while the remnants of the fireworks still sparkled with magic in the night air. The clock had long since bonged the dinner hour before Nettie slipped into the Post Office for one last check even though it was officially a holiday. Old habits died hard.

It was very late. The wood stove that warmed the Post had long since grown cold. Better make sure there was firewood enough for tomorrow. The nights were growing autumn-cool. Nettie piled wood in the box, then seated herself. A few loose ends to tie up before calling it a night. She hesitated, thinking, then wrote a brief note to Milo, the Assistant Postmaster. Much too brief, but she had tarried too long as it was. She finished it with a postscript reminding him to make sure Widow Prim paid up on her postage. Milo tended to be soft. She sealed it and set it up on the mantel next to the Post clock. Milo was diligent in winding it first thing in the morning, so she knew he wouldn’t miss seeing the note. She pulled on her cloak and reached for Scatha leaning in his accustomed corner. “Have it your way,” she said to the dragon and snorted. Scatha gazed at her unblinkingly and nestled comfortably into her hand.

The first nip of autumn met her nose as she stepped out into the clear night. A fine night for walking, it was. There'd be a light mist settling in soon. She looked up. High up on The Hill, a soft light glowed through one of the round windows of Bag End. The study, she guessed. The Host had slipped away from the party and was no doubt making the final preparations for his final journey.

And tonight, I’ll go with him.

She grasped the RSVP tightly in her hand as her heart beat high and fast. 

_Mountains! Elves!_

Then the Evening Star rose and her heart sang _yes yes yes!_

If she hurried, she would have time for one last delivery.


End file.
